Fear bubbles like tarmac and boils over onto the ground, her tears flood in startling quantity onto the bed, on to her face, her pale neck. She gasps and tries to breath without moving so much as to irritate him.
She is so scared. There is regret and terror. He has lit a match in the process, and the energy burns.
She begs his name.
Her blood and her liquid continue to ooze into clots and there is a distant clatter, clatter as he decides what to darn her with.
She knows she would have healed without assistance. She knows this is for show. She knows she is the show. He sutures her with surgical thread. For complete effect.
He pulls the fleshy lip at the site of the first cut, pursing the incision together and bunching up the clot. He threads a single loop stitch and then another. He lifts the needle over her central human opening and copies these same two looped stitches on the other lip’s cut and travels back again. The pain is monotonous and filling and oily. She feels ill and on fire.
In inch gaps he stitches up her wounds over her cunt in a zig zag pattern. She can move her legs and thighs but not pelvis or groin, for fear or splitting the dainty ties. Or herself. Her sobs still patter, she watches him loop a finishing knot and admire his work.
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